


Hopeless Wanderer

by SherlockHolmes



Series: Asexy April 24 Fics in 24 Hours Challenge [2]
Category: Being Human (UK)
Genre: Asexual Character, F/M, Gen, M/M, Mitchell's Depressing Past, Slightly dubious consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-27
Updated: 2013-04-27
Packaged: 2017-12-09 15:39:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/775893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SherlockHolmes/pseuds/SherlockHolmes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: Gimme some ace!Mitchell being guilty about being relieved when he realises that he and Annie can't have sex</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hopeless Wanderer

Sex had never interested John Mitchell. Sure, he did it, but it wasn’t something that he relished in. 

As a human, it hadn’t been too much of a problem. After all, his family were catholics. Having sex before marriage was not done, or mentioned, or even thought about, much to Mitchell’s relief. He’d been betrothed to a girl, a young lass from the neighboring village, before the call to war had gone out. They’d kissed farewell, but never moved any further than that.

At the front lines, it was slightly different. Many of the men would sleep with each other, mostly in a fit of fear of death more than any lust or love. Mitchell never joined in, always passing off the many offers he got with a smile and a swig of gin.

When Herrick turned him, however, his stance on sex changed.

“You’re a predator,” his mentor had growled at him one day. “You reel them in with promises of pleasure, before sucking them dry as they writhe on your cock.”

Mitchell had turned red at his crude words, and Herrick’s eyebrows had raised.

“Have you never done it before?”

At Mitchell’s denial, he had dragged him off to a bar. There was blood pumping, thrumming in his ears and filling his nostrils. At Herrick’s prompting, he’d made his way over to a blonde at a bar. She was exactly what other men went after - curvy, beautiful, blonde. A few drinks later, she was in his bed, her lips mashed against his, her tongue flicking into his mouth like a slippery tentacle.

She’d been the one to shove him onto the bed, fumbling with his pants and underpants. Mitchell had spent the entire time wondering if this was where he was meant to get turned on. The men he’d known had always talked about this moment, where they could hardly contain themselves, their cocks throbbing and hard, filled with lust. All that Mitchell could see was red. All he could hear was the blood pumping through her veins.

He hadn’t waited for her to begin undressing herself, instead just pouncing on her, holding her down as his fangs pierced her jugular. 

When he’d gone to meet with Herrick the next morning, he’d asked him what it was like to be a real man. Mitchell had licked his lips and replied, “Wonderful.”

* * *

It was four months later that he actually lost his virginity. He and Herrick had pulled two girls back to their hotel room together. There had been no room for privacy, so Herrick dragged his girl into one corner while Mitchell took the other. Avoiding it was impossible. Throughout the entire act, Herrick's eyes were on him, gauging his reations.

Sex, he discovered, was messy, loud, and really not what everyone harped on about. There was no bright burst of pleasure when he came, no increased lust or desire. It wasn’t until her blood was slipping down his throat that he felt something. More life than sex could ever give him.

After that, Mitchell fucked all his prey. He’d lure them in, throw them onto his bed, and they’d fuck. It was quieter that way - the moans of blood loss mingled with those of pleasure, leaving the neighbors none the wiser. Still, the blood was the only part Mitchell enjoyed. Sex was just a means to an end.

Nothing changed until the 60s. By that stage, the two acts had become intertwined - the sex and the blood. Men and women alike, the noisy, sweaty rutting would only end one way - their blood running down the back of his throat. 

Then he met Josie. Smart, confident Josie, talking calmly to him despite her vulnerable position. And he felt a spark of something - not bloodlust, but romance. The urge to screw her and suck her dry wasn’t there, or at least not at the forefront of his mind. 

And she spoke to him. Reminded him of things he’d forgotten, things he’d ignored.

_“_ You don’t have to do this. Not if you don’t want to.”

Less than a month later, he turned up at her door with flowers.

“You’re right, I don’t have to do that. But I can’t stop. Not on my own.”

She’d let him into her home and her heart. Through his withdrawals she’d taken care of him, kept him safe, kept him sane.

Their romance had burned bright and strong, lasting longer than any other Mitchell had ever had. They’d travelled around, finding the most beautiful places they could and indulging in life.

Then, one day, they’d been kissing, when her hands had moved to his pants. Mitchell had panicked for a moment, before remembering this was Josie. His girlfriend. Part of being a couple, he logically knew, was having sex. It was normal, expected, no matter how much he didn’t want it.

As always, it was messy, hot, sweaty, and rather loud. All that moaning, all that movement. Mitchell had been glad when he finally climaxed, just happy to have gotten it over and done with. They’d rolled away from each other, and he’d realised that this would become a frequent occurrence. An expected chore.

_You don’t have to do this. Not if you don’t want to._

Josie’s own words had echoed in his mind, and he made a decision.

A week later, he was back on the streets.

It was a year before Herrick found him. A year of traveling about with nothing but the clothes on his back and whatever he could line his pockets with. In another month, he was back to his old tricks, screwing and chewing his way through the men and women of England under Herrick’s watchful eye. The former lust and glory he’d felt, however, was gone. The movements were habitual, old dances that were loosing their luster. 

He’d broken away from Herrick a few more times. The most memorable of which had been Carl.

There was something about being with the gay vampire. So little judgment when it came to Mitchell’s own sexual activities, or lack thereof. It was like shackles off his heart and mind, knowing he could stay with him. Stay clean, stay safe, stay everything.

It lasted until Carl got his new lover. A human man, whose blood thrummed so close to the surface. His scent had sent Mitchell running, afraid of loosing control.

Back into Herrick’s arms he’d accidentally run, getting caught in his web. No matter how hard he struggled, he couldn’t seem to get free.

Then came George Sands, and the pink house. A werewolf was safe from him - the thought of drinking from him turned his stomach, made his blood curdle. With him, Mitchell once more got clean.

And Annie, she helped. The ghost girl, whose scent didn’t exist. There was no blood to lust over, no body to break. Just sweet, pure, innocent Annie.

It was with them that he learnt about himself. Emotions, actions, and blood had melded in his head. Rage led to blood. Sex led to blood. Getting cornered, getting into fights, they all led to blood. Even romance, it seemed, wasn’t free of the red tinge, as romance inevitably led to sex, and sex always resulted in blood and gore and death.

That was how Lauren happened. They’d gone out a couple of times, and he’d found he’d liked her. She was smart, self assured, and spunky. A few dates later, her hands were once again at his pants, and once again there was that animalistic rutting. 

He didn’t notice her blood trickling down his throat until it was too late.

It may not sound like a tough, vampiric thing to do, but when Mitchell got home that night he curled up on his bed and cried, sobs wracking his body.

Lucy was next. The smart, sharp young woman, who for some reason reminded him so much of Josie. Perhaps it was her Mitchell was thinking of when he slept with Lucy for the first time, remembering how with Josie it had been that which had driven him away from her. This time, he decided, it wouldn’t be like that. He’d try and enjoy it, try engage in it without the blood.

It worked, for a bit. Unfortunately, it all fell apart when he discovered she was a murderous, religious nut - something that always seemed to put a damper on relationships.

When he finally realised that it was Annie, his beautiful ghost, that he loved, he could not be more relieved.

“How would it work?” he’d asked George, miming a crude thrusting movement and hoping that his friend wouldn’t have an answer. He didn’t need an answer. He didn’t want an answer. Thankfully, none was provided.

His relief caused guilt to bury into his chest - after all, Annie had wanted it. The ghost desired sex, while the vampire hated it. Mitchell spent a moment reveling in the irony of it as they lay on his bed, cuddled together.

“I’m sorry we can’t... you know,” Annie told him softly. Mitchell smiled at her.

“It’s fine, really. Sex was never anything more than a means to an end. I prefer our relationship this way. It’s more... pure.”

It was more than just pure. It was what he had always wanted.


End file.
